Buried Deep
by now-another-day
Summary: "She saw, underneath everything denied to her, everything suffered and thrown to her waiting hands, her innocent soul; still searching for her. An aura of what she once was." In which Primrose Everdeen, aged twelve, attended her first Reaping, went in, and won.
1. Summary

**Sneak Peek / Summary:**

"She saw, underneath everything denied to her, everything suffered and thrown to her waiting hands, her innocent soul; still searching for her. An aura of what she once was."

_In which Primrose Everdeen, aged twelve, attended her first Reaping, went in, and won._

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**A/N: ****_Peeta was never picked. Told in third person. _**


	2. Introduction

**"Buried Deep" - Written by C. Reese**

_"She saw, underneath everything denied to her, everything suffered and thrown to her waiting hands, her innocent soul; still searching for her. An aura of what she once was." _

Songs of inspiration: "Dead Hearts" by Stars; "We Might Fall" by Ryan Star.**  
**

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**Introduction**

Forget the odds; numbers, bets, anything based on outward show. It's what's inside that counts.

And everyone knows that—except for the citizens of the Capitol.

So that's why when Primrose was reaped, and scored a four from the Gamemakers, no one was surprised. Family was scared, because she was weak.

The entirety of District Twelve's people were already mourning, with exception for the Everdeens and Hawthornes. They hung onto what some called 'false hope' for the little pint-sized girl. And maybe it is that that brought her home. Because she won. She played by the rules; her own set. She got through on no deaths, unless done out of mercy. Mercy. Guilt. A gnawing that tears you from the inside out. A prolonged feeling of sinning; regret.

There were a total of twenty-three deaths, yet only one was done by this victor.

A debt paid to Rue Bressan a blade in the heart while she had been taken, captured by poison that slowly drained her. It was done as a quick escape, if not for herself, for her ally.

_"Rue!"_

_ A thud resonated throughout the fields, as the dark, coffee-colored girl from Eleven fell to the earth, sharp teeth chawing down to the bone, fangs clamped over her calf; through the rough canvas pants. _

_There was already a sickly purple coloring slowly inching its way up her toes contagion corrupting her, fast. Stilling her blood, even._

_"Kill me, Primrose. Please. I... I'm going... No, don't try those plants. Just... end it." Rue told Prim, her hands jerkingly hovering over the mangled Mutt's neck. Fingers dancing, it seemed, through the hair there, barely touching. "None can... save me." The blade stopped a breath away from the tiny tribute's throat. And then it plunged into the hollow under her chin, Primrose Everdeen kissing the wound after finding and taking the flowers for which her friend had been named for, and dressing both bleeding gashes. Her lips were, for the rest of her Games, resembling those of a wild dog's, covered in blood. And after then had a darker tint than any other._

_"I'd say the Deadly Nightshade could have helped, I know it would have, but you don't deserve to be stuck. I'd never kill you." she had whispered to Rue's corpse. _

_The blade stopped a breath away from the tiny tribute's throat. And then it plunged into the hollow under her chin, Primrose Everdeen kissing the wound after finding and taking the flowers for which her friend had been named for, and dressing both bleeding gashes. Her lips were, for the rest of her Games, resembling those of a wild dog's, covered in blood. And after then had a darker tint than any other._

_"I'd say the Deadly Nightshade could have helped, I know it would have, but you don't deserve to be stuck. I'd never kill you." she had whispered to Rue's corpse. _

And now, this intuitive twelve year old from District Twelve, headstrong in her own way and broken from the events occurred after her Reaping, rises to the stage, taking quick breaths to calm her nerves before she meets the one and only, Caesar Flickerman once again—this time in celebration of her victory.


	3. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1 **

_That girl from District Eight's death was quick, _Prim thinks, smoothing her hands over her skirt as she sits down in the plush ivory seat across from Caesar. _And from Five, the boy; Ten, both Tributes. _

She watched them bleed out, suffocate, or starve once. A silent shadow, alone. And now she's being forced to do so again. In front of everyone, where she is sure she'll cry.

She's supposed to be strong, Primrose Everdeen is, though there were hardly any bets on the slight child from Twelve. She's a healer, back home, and only murdered one— _no, not _murder_, mercy, _Prim tries to tell herself, but can't believe the statement truly.

_It was for Rue, it was for Rue, it was for Rue... and maybe it wasn't. _

There was no one rooting for her, either, except for few family members and friends. _And certainly she had the same odds as me, _Prim thinks. _Or we'd not have survived as long as we did. As she _did_, and I am. _

A boisterous voice booms down at Prim, and she brings her slitted eyes to the man standing next to her, his powdered hand extended. He smiles too wide, eyes too open, his arm too jerking for the girl to decifer if the movement is his choice or by drug-induced hyper activity. She lightly squeezes his fingers, jolting his hand up and down before she releases. He seems to dim a bit by then.

"Well, lovely Primrose. Smart girl like you, surviving the Games. And so tiny!" Caesar says, pursing his lips at the end of the sentence. "Just like your little ally, just your size, was she? Rue from Eleven." At this, Prim has started to grip the armrests in her hands, nearly balling up the stiff shell material.

"It's wonderful to have you back," the host continues, taking a seat in his chair, then jutting toward her, leaning in and grasping every breath she takes.

"And I'm thankful to be," she forces out, hearing the vibrations in the air from the buzz of the crowd. "I was almost certain I was dead meat."

Caesar shakes his head. "Dear girl, you weren't, though. You used that small frame of yours to wedge yourself in between rocks, near the stream, and in the hollows of trees, am I correct? Or am I mixing you and your friend again?"

"You're not mistaken." Prim tells him quietly. His hand pats hers, and she wants to turn away from this man. Hop on a train and immediately ride home to Katniss, and her mother, and her friends. She wants Buttercup and Lady, too. Fur to comb through at night before bed; when instead, she must put up with this. The sylists, the silent servants, and the president's sinister glare.

"Then my judgement has not completely gone off." Caesar says, laughing slightly. Prim brings a girly giggle from who-knows-where inside her, though it is not real, and may never be again.

The two exchange banter, fake beyond belief on the victor's part, and she is asked questions about home, all of which are answered with nods or the shaking of her head, maybe a short response. Everyone (except for the viewers in the Circle and the shining city) can see that Prim is not comfortable, and is rather detached to anything said. She acts only when other tributes are mentioned, because that was as close as she was to anyone during the past weeks.

_"Boy, Cato was such a... strong opponent, don't you think?"_

"He certainly was... big. Big arms, big muscle, and big ego." she says curtly, a smirk making its way to her lips.

"Just a big boy, then." Caesar says.

"Yeah." Prim replies, twiddling her thumbs, eyes flashing to the screens where she witnesses her overdone face; with ghost-white skin and pale, almost grey, lips, all smothered in make up. The girl rubs her mouth together, wetting the surface with her tongue. She pushes a curl of hair out of her face half-heartedly, weighed down from the stress of everything to fully press it behind her ear.

Simple actions, simple words. Not-so easy life. 

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"Just beautiful, Darling, wonderful." coos Effie, once the lights are off and the stage goes dark, a stumbling Haymitch trailing behind the girls as they make their path to the elevator. The only one to join them is an Avox who carries a tray of lightbulbs from a cart in her hands.

Prim doesn't know what she did wrong that makes her feel so bad, so sad and tired; and wonders why the fox-faced, pasty girl doesn't speak. Her suit is white, her hair a head of crimson. It draws Prim's attention. She nods toward the servant, who gets off at the next stop with a ping of the doors and the soft squish of carpet beneath her booted feet.

An arm drapes on Prim's shoulder, and she staggers in her stubby heels and silken dress. Fingers touch the blue fabric of her frock, leaving a grubby print in their place.

"Ah, flower child," comes the grumbling of Haymitch from behind her. "You did real good out there with the innocence act. Nice one, keep it up." This causes her steps to falter, before stopping completely.

"Act?"

"Yeah, _act_. It was one, right?"

She doesn't lie. "No." And then Haymitch starts to sputter on what whatever alcohol he's consumed.

"You've got to be kidding me. You... you've got to be stronger than that."

"Nope." Prim says, quiet.

"Oh my lordy, flower. We're in trouble."

"What?"


End file.
